MASH: Mobile Army Surgical Hospital
by clairenbearen
Summary: He's drafted to operate on soldiers in a war he never supported in a country he can't point to on a map. The wounded all look either too young or too old in his opinion, and he hates the war and everything it stands for. There's not much that keeps him sane – just alcohol, humor, and practical jokes.


They come for him in the middle of surgery.

He's hands deep in the chest of a forty-five year old man with coronary heart disease. He glances up at one of the nurses, sticks out his hand, and says, "Clamp."

By the time his shift is over, the military personnel have been waiting for three hours. When he walks out of the operating room, they stand upright and follow him down the hall, even as he waves them away.

"Dr. Stark," one of them finally says.

"That's me." One of the nurses passes him in the hallway, and he winks at her.

"You have yet to report to your appointed location for your induction, sir."

Tony turns around, walking backwards towards the doors. "Listen, Thing 1 and Thing 2: I'm a doctor. I'm not a soldier. My job is to save lives, not to take them."

The first one to address him squares his soldiers. "You need to come with us. Sir."

He smiles tightly. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'd rather not be pulling shrapnel out of a kid's chest."

The other one extends his hand, holding a slip of paper out to him. "I would read this before you consider anything else, Dr. Stark."

Tony huffs and reads the notice. He curses and crumples it in his hand. "Really? If I don't run off and join your boyband, you're going to _strip me_ of my _medical license_?"

The second MP nods. "That is the case, Dr. Stark. You can come with us, or you can kiss your life goodbye."

He rolls his eyes and opens the door. Gesturing with his free hand, he says, "Lead the way, gentlemen."

It's hotter than he would have expected when they arrive at the 4077 M*A*S*H. A boy who can't be any older than eighteen (though, really, he looks eleven) shifts his weight from foot to foot as he waits for the Army Jeep to come rolling to a stop. The boy pushes a hand through his hair before he shuffles to the side of the vehicle.

"Hello, Captain Stark. Um, if you'll come with me, I can take your bags."

Tony steps out of the Jeep and regards the kid. "How old are you, kid?"

He looks up at Tony and sniffles, pulling one of Tony's bags out of the Jeep. "Eighteen, sir. Why do you ask?"

"You look twelve. On a good day."

The kid tries to smile. "This way, sir," he says, jerking his head in the direction of the tents. The wind picks up, and one of Tony's boots scuffs against a pebble.

"What is your name, kid?"

The kid looks over his shoulder, clearly struggling with Tony's bags. "I-I'm Peter Parker, sir. But, uh, Colonel Quill calls me Radar, if you want."

Tony nods, not realizing that the tent that Peter has stopped in front of are his new quarters. He bumps into the kid, and Peter stumbles a little. Tony reaches out to keep him from falling. "Sorry about that, Peter."

Peter nods at him, and Tony opens the door for him and follows him into the tent. A man lounges on his bed, barely looking up when Tony stands, awkwardly looking around the sparse home. Peter drops his bag by the bed nearest to the door. "Um, sir, that's Captain Clint Barton. Colonel Quill is in surgery right now, but when he gets out, I'll tell him you're here."

Tony smiles at Peter. "Thanks, Peter. And cut the 'sir' crap. I don't care for Army protocol."

Clint scribbles something onto the crossword puzzle he has. "No one calls him Peter. It's just Radar."

Tony looks between Peter and Clint before deciding to focus on Peter. "This true?"

Peter flounders like a fish out of water. "I-I…it's – I…I mean…"

Tony turns to Clint. "Why doesn't anyone call this kid Peter?"

Clint looks up, lazily twirling the pencil in his hand. "The colonel's name is also Peter. And besides, Radar can hear choppers before they come. Hence the nickname."

Peter looks down. "Do you got a nickname, Dr. Stark?"

Tony looks over his shoulder, not overlooking how young Peter seems at the moment. "Hawkeye, actually. My dad's friend started calling me that, and it just stuck."

Clint squints at him. "Well, we can't have two Hawkeyes in the same camp."

"Good thing you're not actually Hawkeye," Peter mumbles under his breath.

It's loud enough that Tony catches it. "What?"

Peter looks up, his eyes wide. "I-I just mean that…well, Captain Barton has two nicknames in this camp, but since you're Hawkeye, maybe he can just be…maybe he can just be Trapper."

Tony holds up a hand, and Peter clamps his mouth shut. "How about we call each other by our own names? I'll call you Radar if you want, but for now, why don't you just call me Tony?"

Peter nods. As he turns to leave, the door flies open, and Peter stumbles backwards, running into Tony. A man stands in the entryway, eyes narrowed at the boy standing before him. Peter lifts his hand to salute.

"Corporal Parker, what are you doing in here?"

"Uh…um…Major-Major Hogan, I was just helping Captain Stark to his new quarters." Peter points to the bed by which Tony's bag rests.

Major Hogan looks between Peter and Tony. "Why didn't you come to fetch me then, Corporal?"

Peter gulps. "I – you were in surgery, and I didn't think I should interrupt just in case it was a difficult case, I'm sorry, sir –"

"Well, sorry doesn't cut it."

When Tony sees Peter visibly deflate, he puts his hands on his shoulders. "Major Hogan, it's fine. I was just asking him about the camp."

Major Hogan decides to leave Peter alone for now. "And who are you?"

Tony rolls his eyes and extends his hand. "Tony Stark. You?"

Hogan squints at Tony's proffered hand and ignores it. "I would advise you to use your rank when introducing yourself, _Captain_."

Tony rolls his eyes again. "Oh, forgive me, Major Hogan. Now, please, answer me: what is your name?"

Hogan straightens and squares his shoulders. "Harold Hogan. _Major_ Harold Hogan."

"Nice to meet you, Harold."

Peter snickers.

"And just what are you laughing at, Corporal Parker?" Harold asks.

Peter ducks his head and shuffles out of the tent. "Nothing, sir. I'm going to go find Colonel Quill, sir." The door swings open, and the rusty hinges creak as it closes.

Clint stands up, walks over to some weird contraption, grabs a martini glass, and fills it. "Want some gin?"

Tony shakes his head. "Not right now, thanks."

"Happy?"

Harold's eyes widen. "How _dare_ you address me in such a – in such an _informal_ way, Captain! I am your superior officer!"

Clint stares at him, hand poised to fill another glass. "Is that a yes or no? I can't tell."

Happy points at Clint. "That is against regulation!"

Clint shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "I'm still not getting a clear answer from you."

"No!"

Clint shrugs. "Suit yourself."

Before Happy can go off on the "lack of regulation," the door swings open again, and a man wearing white scrubs ducks through the doorway. Peter – Radar, whatever his name is – follows him inside, and the door presses into his back when it closes.

"You must be Captain Stark," the new face says, offering his hand to shake, "I'm Colonel Peter Quill."

Tony shakes his hand. "Do we call the kid Peter, or is that just for you?"

Quill laughs and shakes his head, scratching his left arm. "Either/or. I'm fine if you call me Quill, or if you call me Peter. But if you call him Radar, it avoids some confusion."

Tony nods. "Thank you, Quill."

Happy scoffs and storms out the door, and Peter scrambles to get away from him, but in the process, he trips over himself and falls onto Tony's bed.

Clint raises his glass in a toast. "Don't let him scare you, Radar."

Peter laughs nervously. "I-I try not to, sir."

They say the first shift is always the worst. A doctor goes from normal medicine – civilian practice, if you will – to quick surgeries and hasty cleanups. There's always metal in soldiers' chests, in their shoulders, sides, legs, anywhere that has any flesh. They have wounds that can likely be fatal, and they all come in facing death with almost no chance of seeing their next birthday. Soldiers wake up missing a leg or an arm, and then they have to face the reality that they will never be truly whole again.

It's tough on him.

"Nurse, close for me." Tony pivots, taking his gloves off as he turns for the next patient. It's another chest wound, but this kid… he can't be any older than sixteen. He looks almost as young as Peter.

Tony shakes the thought from his mind and gets to work.

It's a long day and a long shift. Just as the stress is starting to get to him, Quill breaks the silence.

"What do you call a mix between a beaver and a rabbit?" There's a grunt of exertion as he carefully grips a piece of shrapnel with forceps, and it clinks into the little bowl the nurse holds out to him. "A hoppy woodcutter."

Tony shakes his head, smiling behind the mask. "No, no, Quill, the answer is a _dam_ happy woodcutter."

Happy looks up from his patient. "Will you cut the racket in here? Some people are trying to concentrate!"

"Oh, we must not forget: Happy isn't actually a doctor, he's just an imposter. It's quite difficult for someone to be working in this environment, Happy. You should take the rest of the war off." Clint looks to his nurse. "Suture."

"How dare you! I am a perfectly qualified surgeon!"

"Happy," Tony says in a sing-song voice, "why don't you show us instead of tell us? Actions speak louder than words."

"Sir?"

Tony's never going to be used to a voice that young being in a place like this. He glances over his shoulder to see Peter approaching Peter.

"Sir, General Clayton is on the line. He's asking for you." Peter looks out of place with a surgical mask and Army fatigues. He wears a hat that covers his ears, and he looks a little older than he did when Tony first arrived.

"Not now, Radar. Can you tell him I'm in the middle of surgery?"

Peter shifts his weight from foot to foot. "I did, sir, but he demands to speak with you."

Quill sighs heavily. "On a scale of one to ten, how important is it, Radar?"

"Very, sir."

Quill sighs again. "Stark? You almost done over there?"

Tony nods. "Nurse, close for me." He removes his gloves, letting a nurse – he can't remember her name at the moment, but he knows she has a thing with Happy – slide a new pair onto his hands. "I've got it, Quill, you can go take that call."

Quill leaves the operating room, Peter Parker following closely behind.

It's a lot of late shifts, a lot of quick surgeries, a lot of shrapnel, and a lot of deflecting the obvious. There's a lot of joke-making, and Tony meets Corporal Sam Wilson, who hates the army so passionately that he's read through every protocol and has decided to get a section 8 – discharge on the basis of insanity.

Tony finally learns the name of the woman who has a fling with Happy, and her name is Virginia Potts, but everyone just calls her Pepper. She's also a stickler for Army regulation, but she's more adequate than Happy is.

But what gets him the most is the fact that Peter Parker sleeps with a teddy bear.

He doesn't mean to discover it, really, he doesn't. He get off late from surgery, and when he leaves, he finds Peter passed out on his bed, a brown teddy bear clutched tightly in his arms. He looks so young, and maybe it wasn't the first time that Tony hates the war, but it certainly is the most passionately.

Peter Parker is just a child.

As Tony stands there, eyes looking but not quite seeing, Peter tenses up and trembles in his sleep. He begins to mumble incoherently, but Tony knows enough to kneel by his bedside and shake him from his dream.

Peter jerks awake, looking to Tony with wide eyes. "What – there's nothing going on. You should get some sleep, Tony."

Tony tries to smile for the sake of the kid, really, he does, but he just can't do it. "What were you dreaming about?"

Peter visibly deflates and clutches the bear tighter to his chest. "Nothing. Just – sometimes we get shellfire. It's not that bad, I just remember it some nights, is all."

Not that bad, his _ass_.

Tony just nods and pats Peter's knee. "What's his name?" he asks, nodding to the bear.

Peter furrows his eyebrows and follows Tony's line of eyesight. "Oh. It's…it's just a teddy bear, sir, it doesn't have a name."

"Cut the bull." Tony actually smiles this time. "What's his name?"

Peter looks down, clearly embarrassed. "Teddy," he mumbles.

It's greater than Tony could have ever imagined. "Teddy, eh?"

"I know, I know."

Tony nods. "I swear, if you get rid of that bear, I'm going to get rid of the thing that makes you a man. I need something to make fun of you for."

Peter glares at him.

"Get to sleep, kid." He stands and leaves, blowing hot air into his hands as he crosses the cold night.

It's been the longest week of his life.


End file.
